


(My Little) Runaway

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: BioShock
Genre: Age Difference, Age of Consent, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Arranged Marriage, Atlas is Not Frank Fontaine, Atlas is Real, Atlas misses Ireland, Bad Decisions, Bad Parenting, Bars and Pubs, Begging, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Class Differences, Class Issues, Consent Issues, Crushes, Crying, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dark, Domestic Violence, Drugs, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Flashbacks, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Fucked Up, Head Injury, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Jack is a walking disaster, Kissing, Labor Unions, Lolita, Loneliness, M/M, Manipulation, Paparazzi, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rapture (Bioshock), Rapture is a dangerous place, Self-Destruction, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Violence, Suicidal Thoughts, Taboo, Temptation, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Tropes, Underage Kissing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, Wetting, auto asphyxiation for comfort not kink fulfillment, does Jack have low self esteem or is he just manipulating people: a fanfic, inspired by too much Lana Del Rey, jailbait Jack, jailbait!Jack, romanticizing bad situations, runaway!Jack, the jatlas is the least problematic thing about this fic, unsatisfactory blowjobs from hookers in Rapture don't help you forget how lonely you are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6909418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an AU where Rapture does not fall, and the horrors of splicing don't come to exist, Jack Ryan is, as Andrew Ryan's son, something of a celebrity. Shy and a bit of a wallflower, he does not thrive under the conditions of constant, intrusive press; social expectations; and his father's own willingness to use him to 'sweeten' various business deals. A few months shy of his eighteenth birthday, he takes to hiding in plain sight, sneaking out to a pub in the rough end of town to try and drown his sorrows. </p><p>It's there that he meets a factory worker named Atlas, who saves him from blundering into harm's way, and then becomes as much of an escape as the social strata and neighborhood he inhabits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is possibly the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written. Blame it on too much Lana del Rey playing late at night, and the fact that I have a real weakness for Irishmen and age-gap relationships.
> 
> While Jack is jailbait when the story starts, he will be eighteen when any sex happens between him and Atlas.
> 
> Also an advanced trigger warning for Jack having a really shitty (i.e. (emotionally/sexually) abusive) childhood, and for him using various means of escape (including alcohol, drugs, and the affection of another person (i.e. Atlas.))
> 
> Lastly, indulge me in my use of the term 'taxi' for what are, more realistically, just taxi-style bathyspheres. Because I really needed a taxi in this chapter, and figure that since Atlas spent his formative years on the surface, that's what he'd call it in his head. Any other inaccuracies are a combination of needing to make things work in this AU/artistic license/me having not played the game in five million years. Just roll with it (whenever I can, I check the wiki for details to make sure I have things right, but if something like the taxi happens... just indulge me, please. :P)

* * *

* * *

 

There was truly nothing better than a stiff drink after a long day. The ache in Atlas’s muscles could attest to the fact that it had been a very long day indeed. Better to be employed than on the dole, better to earn a meager wage than to starve – Atlas knew his fair share of people in worse circumstances – but that did not make his life problem-free by any means. Word on the floor was that a strike would be called any day now, and while the prospect of no pay for the foreseeable future, and losing his job to the first scab willing to work for a lower rate, hardly thrilled him, he couldn’t help but hope that the break from factory labour would allow him to recover his strength.

In the mean time, he mused wryly, at least he had his drink.

The pub was not his local, but he preferred the atmosphere. It reminded him of the home he left behind, all old wood, dim lights, and easy conversation – not that he was currently inclined to talk. The pain in his hands and shoulders had faded to a dull throbbing, and the liquor in his belly had him feeling warm and trouble-free. If only someone were playing the fiddle, it would’ve been near perfect, but it was good enough, as it was. The barmaid wasn’t pretty by any stretch of the imagination, but through the fog of alcohol the harsh lines of her red face were smoothed away, and her lank, limp hair looked shiny and clean. He knew better than to try his luck with her. (He’d asked her once if she would care to pull something other than a pint for a change, and he still winced, remembering the slap she’d given him.)

Knowing her legs would remain firmly closed to him, the workman let his eyes wander over the establishment’s patrons. There were hardly ever women here, unless they were prostitutes or other man’s wives, so he wasn’t surprised when he came up empty-handed, but it was in his perusal of the other customers that he noticed the runaway sitting in the corner, hiding in the shadows.

Atlas knew straight away that the youngster was a runaway, because, for one thing, he kept fidgeting and looking around, as though he was afraid of being found. He wore a wide-brimmed hat low on his head, and large, round tinted glasses over his eyes. He wore a scarf around his neck so long that it looped ‘round at least six times. It came up over his chin and though he pulled it down enough to drink, he still tried to hide behind it as much as he could.

From the hat to the scarf, Atlas could see that the boy was too rich to be wandering around Pauper’s Drop alone. From the way he was sipping his – what _was_ it? Atlas had never seen anyone order something like it before, not here. From the way he was sipping his… beverage… through a _straw_ , no less, Atlas was amazed he hadn’t been propositioned. It wasn’t just young _women_ who had to be wary in this part of town.

 _Speak of the devil,_ the Irishman thought as a big man with a piggish face staggered over to the stranger, too inebriated to move smoothly.

“Drinkin’ alone ar’wwe?” the large fellow slurred, slamming a hand down on the table hard enough that the young man jumped and recoiled. “Thaaassss no good! You wan’ some -hic- company, eh?”

The boy stammered out an answer and flinched again when his aggressor reached for his sunglasses.

“Le’ssseee your pretty-boy face, hmm? C’mon – let me look’t you –”

The kid was out of his depth – that much was painfully clear. Atlas watched him flounder for a bit. It reminded him, he realized, of a worm, wriggling on the end of a hook.

 _Never did like fishing,_ he though. He drained his glass and rose from his chair with a sigh.

“That’s enough, now. The lad’s not interested, right?” he prompted. The big man turned and glared at him.

“Whassit t’you? You an’ him s’me kinda pansies?”

Atlas snorted.

“The way I see it, you’re the only one tryin’ to take another man to bed. Leave him alone, now – he’s not fallin’ for it.”

The man was a good foot taller than Atlas, and outweighed him by at least eighty pounds. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, but he retained a neutral expression, thanking the universe for endowing him with an unwavering poker face.

“Whaddarya gonna do about it, huh?” the drunk hissed, taking a step towards him and poking him in the chest with a thick, sausage-like finger. Atlas braced against the impact and shrugged.

“Oh, I know me way around a fight well enough. If it comes to that. ‘Course, I’d rather it didn’t. Cops say I’ve run out of second chances. ‘Atlas,’ they say, ‘you kill anyone else and it’ll be the chair for you.’ Now, surely can see that I’m not eager for that, but it’s no use. I’m messy, see. Always leave evidence – it’s the bite marks that give me away. They’re me signature.”

He grinned, feral and deadly.

“’round here they call me ‘the Shark.’”

The big man faltered, squinting at him, unsure whether to call his bluff. Atlas rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, the grin never leaving his face.

“Y’can have the ugly little queer,” he spat at last, and pushed past the Irishman on his way out of the pub.

The youngster was staring at him, eyes unreadable behind his glasses. He was trembling slightly, and white as a sheet.

“Sorry about that,” Atlas murmured under his breath. Then, more loudly, “two pints of the strong stuff, here, if you please.”

The barmaid nodded, pleased by the sale, and the other patrons turned their attention back to their drinks. The buzz of conversation returned as Atlas took a seat.

“Didn’t mean to scare you there, boyo,” he said, with a kinder, more genuine smile. “And don’t be clutchin’ at your pearls – I don’t have any designs on your virtue. I just don’t much enjoy seein’ the likes of that bastard tryin’ it on with those who don’t want it.”

Two pints of stout arrived and Atlas pressed the glass into the young man’s shaking hands, grabbing his cocktail and moving it out of reach.

“Here – get rid of that rubbish for starters, and get this down you. It’ll help.”

The boy swallowed a few mouthfuls and wiped his mouth on his wrist.

“Thanks,” he said softly. “For the drink and for… for what you did back there. You… you didn’t mean all that, did you? About… ‘the Shark?’”

Atlas laughed and shook his head, though inwardly, he was concerned. That the kid would simply take his word for it spoke to a kind of naivety that was dangerous in a city like Rapture.

“Just some quick thinkin’,” he assured the youngster. “Name’s Atlas, by the way.”

He offered his hand.

“… Jack,” the boy hesitated before he shook the appendage before him. “Nice to meet you.”

Atlas hummed in agreement, cutting to the chase with his next question.

“You’re not from around here. Someone ought to tell you – this neighborhood’s far from safe.”

Jack bristled.

“I can take care of myself,” he insisted. The older man scoffed.

“Mm. I thought as much at your age. Doesn’t make it true. For one thing, you accepted that drink straight away – if I was a bad sort of man, I could’ve drugged you.”

“Are you a bad sort of man?” Jack asked coyly. Atlas shook his head in disbelief.

“See, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Playin’ the ingénue around here is like… like danglin’ a steak in front of a group of hungry dogs.”

Jack mulled the warning over, sipping his stout. When he set the glass down, foam clung to the tip of his nose. He dragged his sleeve over the spot and scrunched up his face.

“This stuff’s strong,” he mumbled. Atlas cursed himself.

“Should’ve thought of that. Not much tolerance, there, lad?”

Jack shrugged.

“Not of _alcohol,_ no.”

Well, _that_ piqued the older man’s interest. He frowned.

“And of… other things?”

The boy’s face melted into a shy, lopsided smile that was… charming, really. Beguiling, if you wanted to be poetic about it. Atlas was beginning to see how this boy survived in this city. Moreover, he was beginning to feel dangerously drunk.

“I’ve been known to take a bit of this and that,” the youngster confided. “When things get bad.”

“And,” Atlas rasped, mouth suddenly dry, “are things bad often?”

A one-shoulder shrug and another secret little smile.

There was something magnetic about the kid – maybe it was just that he was out of place in the gutter. Old money, Atlas bet – well, as old as money got in Rapture, anyway. Atlas pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tight. It had been much, much too long since his last roll in the proverbial hay if he was appraising the looks and bearing of another man.

“How old are you?” he ground out through his teeth. The boy shrugged.

“Old enough.”

_Christ._

“That’s no answer,” he retorted in a no-nonsense tone.

“… seventeen,” the young man admitted.

 _There, that puts him right off limits,_ Atlas scolded himself.

“So, what are you doin’ here, all alone? You ought to be at home… completin’ your homework. Or somethin’.”

“I don’t like it at home.”

Atlas nodded.

“Well, I don’t like the thought of you staying here after I go home. What say I help you get a taxi, hmm? Or do you want to play the runaway a little longer?”

The boy looked up, startled.

“How did you know I –”

“Listen, kid, you’re about as conspicuous as a nun in a whorehouse. Now come on. Let’s get you home.”

It took some convincing, and the young man dragged his feet the whole way to the street where the cab agreed to pick him up. If he hadn’t been so drunk, he’d probably have never left his seat.

“Well, then, Jack. It’s been nice gettin’ familiar. I hope not to see you ‘round these parts again – at least, not without a chaperone.”

“I’m free to do what I want,” the boy answered with a bitter laugh. “Isn’t that the great dream of Rapture?”

Atlas shook his head.

“Dreams aren’t much good in this neck of the woods, boyo. Now, you get yourself home in one piece, right?”

The kid bit his lip and nodded, watching as the cab pulled up. He gave Atlas’s hand a squeeze before stumbling off the curb and struggling to open the door. Atlas rolled his eyes and got it for him, helping the boy inside before stepping back and giving a little wave that struck him, even as he did it, as embarrassingly awkward.

“Goodnight Atlas!” the boy called out the window as the vehicle sped away. The workman watched until it turned the corner and was gone.

 _Good riddance,_ he thought, feeling as though he’d just rescued some small animal from imminent doom. He returned to the bar to settle his tab, and ignored the way his chest tightened at the sight of the empty glasses on the corner table.

 _Forget about it,_ he warned himself. _Nothing good comes of mixing with that kind of person._

By the time he wandered back to his cramped apartment, he took pride in the fact that he had successfully all but banished the memory of the runaway from his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not yet decided if Atlas is single!unmarried or single!divorced (but given my love of angst, he'll probably wind up being single!divorced.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is trash and I love it. If Lana Del Rey, The Great Gatsby, and Bioshock had a baby together and then that baby was treated horribly growing up, you'd get this fic.
> 
> Trigger warning for cocaine use, implied non-con, and general yuckiness on the part of Frank Fontaine (who exists separately from Atlas and is being 'entertained' as one of Andrew Ryan's potential business partner guests. 
> 
> The song I was listening to while writing this chapter is Lana Del Rey's 'Try Tonight.' It's great. It's very jatlas... or at least, very 'this iteration of' jatlas. Give it a listen, if you like.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRFMZpLWzCM

* * *

The marble tub in the corner was filled with the blue bubbles, and the sight filled Jack with a sort of resignation. Blue bubbles were for the nights when Andrew threw parties – Dr. Steinman’s special tonic was supposed to make Jack’s skin ‘glow.’ He didn’t need to be told who he would be glowing for. He just sighed and tugged his pajamas off, sinking into the cerulean foam.

Thirty minutes to soak. He pulled his legs up to his chest and rested his head on his knees. He didn’t feel sad – he didn’t feel anything but tired.

He didn’t move for the half-hour the treatment did its work. When the time was up, he got out of the tub and dried off with a fluffy white towel. His skin was porcelain smooth and baby soft – Steinman was, for all his faults, good at his job.

An outfit had been laid out on the side table. Jack sighed and traced the collar of the sailor suit with his fingertips. He wanted long pants – he felt ridiculous wearing knickers above the knee at his age. When it was just his father and himself at dinner, he was allowed to wear anything he pleased out of the suits Mr. Cohen picked out for him. White shoes, white slacks, a navy jacket – like the fellows in his magazines, modelling looks for the Riviera, what ever that was. They looked grown up, and handsome, and Jack hated them for it.

Into the short pants. Into the jersey. The bow at his throat was big and red, like the buttons and the edging on his cuffs. He felt the chill with his arms and legs bare, and waited to acclimatize. He’d be in trouble for showing up with goose pimples.

Knee socks next, and dark grey boots. He laced them up and surveyed his reflection in the wall-length mirror in the corner.

His center-parted hair was perfect – his twin pin-curls symmetrical and neat. Father would be pleased.

Only his face looked wrong – something in his eyes he couldn’t hide. The tiredness showed there, and he couldn’t look at it for long without feeling sick – like he’d eaten something unagreeable.

A little help, then.

He kept his powder in a small, mother-of-pearl box on his dresser. He opened it carefully and took out the thin sheet of card, and the little bag. He made a straight, tidy line and bent down, paper in hand.

When it kicked in, he felt better. When he caught his eye in the looking glass, he smiled. What was the word Sander always called him? Winsome. Yes. He looked winsome.

He wiped the residue off his nostril with a lace-edged handkerchief and packed everything away. His eyes shone, pupils dark and wide. He smiled again, and believed it.

The staircase leading to the ballroom had been installed specifically so that Jack could make an impression, going down it. He waited a beat at the top, hand on the banister, head up and alert, as his father had instructed.

The music that reached his ears pleased him – the din of the crowd of party-goers made him giddy. He caught his father’s gaze, and the little nod that followed, and thrilled at the approval. He descended, step by step, back straight and limbs relaxed but not casual.

He crossed the floor, weaving through the guests, and took his place at his father’s side. Andrew Ryan stood with another man who Jack could recognize, vaguely, though he did not know from where. Behind the man, a woman in a sequined dress was dancing, and the little shimmering discs captured all of Jack’s attention.

He blinked slowly, realizing he was being spoken to.

“… an old rival of mine. With this new deal in the works, we may be burying the hatchet soon enough. Frank, my son Jack. Jack, this is Mr. Frank Fontaine.”

The man’s grin unsettled the younger Ryan, but Jack hid it behind a small smile.

“Pleased to meet you.”

Andrew’s hand settled on his son’s back – a warning. An imperative.

“I have other people to greet – would you be so kind as to show Mr. Fontaine around?”

Jack’s smile never wavered.

“Certainly. Mr. Fontaine?”

The man’s eyes appraised him and that disconcerting grin widened.

“Just call me Frank. Do you like champagne?”

Jack shrugged.

“Truth be told, Dad doesn’t like me drinking.”

The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue. Frank’s hand settled where Andrew's had been moments before, then slid lower, a weight at his waist.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?”

…

Jack was exhausted again, by the time the last of the guests left the house. He was glad to slip out of the sailor suit and leave it rumpled on the floor. He kicked it for good measure on his way to his bath, which he filled again. No treatment this time – just a stiff brush to scrub himself pink with.

His thoughts drifted to the Irishman he’d met a few nights prior, and he paused in his cleaning.

He’d been a different sort of man, Jack was sure. Something about him was fundamentally novel and good. The memory made him warm and dizzy, like the first time he’d tried his powder, but better somehow. More profound.

He studied his skin, now raw and red. Some of his capillaries had burst beneath the skin. He studied the bruise forming on his hip, and wished to be back in that pub again.

“I’ll go back,” he mumbled to himself. “Tomorrow. I’ll find him again.”

 _And what?_ a cruel little voice in his head asked him. He shrugged. He didn’t actually know what the plan would be, once it got to that stage. Weary as he was, he found he didn’t care. All he wanted was to see the man again and feel that same warm sensation, if only for a moment.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered, and the promise felt sacred, like a vow. He rose from the water, dried off, and dressed for bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some fish racing. And Atlas headcanons. Also a blowjob. But not a jatlas blowjob. Just a disinterested!hooker-sucks-existential-crisis-having!Atlas off in an alley. While he definitely doesn't think about jail bait. Not even a little bit.

* * *

The strike was called on a Monday, and left everyone at the factory scrambling to make plans. Atlas was glad he’d thought of a contingency and stashed some cash in his mattress. Even still, he’d give it a month at best before things got worryingly lean.

He planned to avoid the pub for the foreseeable future – no sense wasting what little money he had – but then his radio cut out mid-way through listening to the races and he found himself cursing the second-hand device, and tugging on his jacket.

The walk to the pub took long enough that at best he’d find out which tuna came in last (and really, he wondered when he stopped being bothered by the concept of ‘fish races’. God, he missed land.) He shouldered open the door, and all thoughts of the favorite – an albacore called Dixie Dancer – went out of his head. Jack was back, sitting at the corner table, sipping his drink – stout this time – through _another goddamn straw._

Atlas crossed the room and sat down uninvited.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”

The kid shrugged, the lenses of his huge sunglasses flashing at the movement.

“I wanted a drink.”

Atlas snorted in disbelief.

“Sure, you did. And you can’t find one in your own neighborhood?”

Another shrug, and then, softly:

“… missed you.”

Atlas swore inwardly and ordered himself a glass of water, earning a disapproving look from the barmaid.

“You aren’t drinking tonight?” Jack asked.

“Strike got called today. I’m savin’ what little I’ve got.”

Jack nodded slowly, as though it was just dawning on him that some people worked for a living.

“What do you do?” he asked, cocking his head. Dragging the end of his straw over pink, bow lips.

“I work in a factory,” Atlas answered flatly. “No doubt the details’d bore you.”

“Oh, no, please –” Jack reached across the table and took the workman’s hand. “Please tell me. I’d like to hear it.”

Something in his voice sounded… not exactly sincere, not interested, but that the prospect of silence scared him. Atlas nodded.

“It’s a manual job. Makin’ parts.”

“Parts for what?”

“Bathyspheres,” Atlas replied, taking a swig of water, swishing it around his mouth gingerly. “Say, son, are you gonna drink all of that?”

Jack looked down at his stout and shook his head, pushing it towards the workman. Atlas downed it in one and sighed.

“That’s the stuff!”

Jack studied him, strangely still and quiet.

“Have you ever seen the night sky?” he asked suddenly. Atlas grunted.

“I have, yeah. Doesn’t look like much when you’re in a city like Dublin – all the lights make the stars disappear.”

Jack made a soft, wistful noise.

“I wish I could see a star,” he murmured. Something twisted in Atlas’s chest. The kid looked, suddenly, very small. No doubt it was an act – manipulation – but he was damned good at it, and Atlas found himself standing and offering the boy his hand.

“I can’t show you any stars,” he admitted, “but I think I know something you’d like.”

A sort of tension tightened the young man’s shoulders, but he nodded stiffly and took the hand, following close behind. Half-way to the factory where Atlas worked, the boy reached to unfasten the older man’s braces.

“ –the hell?!” the Irishman sputtered, pushing him away roughly. “What’re y’tryin’ to do?”

His accent was thicker when he was upset and, in that moment, he was furious. The boy faltered.

“You… you said you wanted to… t-to show me –”

Realization dawned on the workman and his anger faded somewhat, replaced by a creeping sense of embarrassment. “You thought I wanted to –”

“Sorry,” the kid mumbled, curling in on himself as though expecting a blow. “I didn’t mean to imply that you…”

“No. No, I… I just wanted to show you the view from the factory roof, is all.”

Atlas swallowed thickly.

“If you like.”

The kid nodded and they fell into step again, this time in silence. What the hell was that? A notion – a dangerous notion – that the kid was in some kind of trouble – wormed around in Atlas’s brain. It was a red flag, sure, but he didn’t think Jack was above stringing along the emotions of anyone who would listen. He’d seen rich folks play crueler games for less reward.

It was easy enough to break into the factory – Atlas knew the building like the back of his hand. Jack, for his part, took in every sight in solemn wonder, as though walking into a cathedral for the first time.

“You work here?” he asked in a whisper, not wanting to talk too loud when breaking the silence. As it was, the words were enough to make Atlas look over sharply. For a moment, he’d forgotten the boy was there.

“I do, yeah. Now, come on, boyo. Up these stairs.”

Atlas had been right to say it wasn’t as good as stars. Still, from where they stood on the roof, the distant lights of the nicer parts of town glinted and shone.

“If you squint your eyes just right, it’s almost the same,” Atlas suggested, no way of knowing if Jack was doing so behind his glasses. Judging from the soft gasp he heard, the kid was.

“Do you miss it?” Jack breathed. “Land?”

Atlas half-shut his own eyes and let the colours bleed and dance before him.

“All the time.”

They stood for a long time. It was Jack who turned away first, and Atlas couldn’t be sure – figured it might’ve been the dim light playing with his eyes – but it looked like the kid’s cheeks were wet.

“Could you – could you tell me more about what its like? The world outside Rapture?”

It was dangerous talk. You could get in trouble just alluding to it, these days. Atlas cleared his throat, throat parched.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

The word was spoken with such sincerity and raw emotion that Atlas had no doubt it was intentional – the boy knew he was losing him with his damsel-in-distress act so he’d upped the anti, brought out the big guns.

Atlas knew that. He _did._

“Whatever you like,” he said, and cursed himself for it. The shy smile was guarded, faked, but it still warmed the workman to know he could coax it out of the kid.

“Great! I’ll… I’ll come find you! At our corner table – you’ll be there, won’t you? I’ll sneak out on Thursday – Thursday’s when I –”

“Hold on,” Atlas interrupted, regaining some of his wits. “I don’t want you traipsin’ about and gettin’ into anymore trouble.”

The boy pouted.

“But… how will we…?”

 _What am I doing?_ Atlas asked himself, even as he fumbled around in his pockets. He found a scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil, and scribbled his telephone number down.

“You call me – you don’t come ‘round here, especially not after dark. You have a phone, don’t you?”

The young man nodded and pocketed the piece of paper.

“Can I call you tonight?”

Atlas snorted.

“What would you need to do that for – you’ve just seen me.”

The boy looked so crestfallen that Atlas sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Tomorrow night. Half-ten. How’s that suit you?”

Jack nodded.

After this agreement was reached, Jack settled down into silence, content to lurk at Atlas’s heels and listen to the occasional observations the Irishman made as they snuck back out of the factory. He only stopped, at one point, to ask, of all things, if the older man’s job made him happy.

“A cog can’t be happy about bein’ a cog – not when the machine he spins in is Rapture.”

Jack seemed lost in thought, contemplating the words. Atlas found himself shepherding the boy back to a major street and calling for another cab. He paid for it out of pocket, watching numbly as his savings diminished before his eyes. The kid shook his hand this time, enthusiastic and over-eager, but a proper, man-to-man handshake.

“I can’t wait for tomorrow to come,” he beamed. Atlas made a derisive noise in his throat and brushed the excitement aside. The boy hovered for a minute, and Atlas realized that he was expected to hold open the lad’s door. The voice of reason, fighting a losing battle, screamed insults at him in his head, for cowing to such entitlement. He held the door like a gentleman – or rather, as a servant. He packed the kid off and sent him away.

As soon as he’d gone, it was as though a fog dissipated. Atlas cursed.

“What were you thinkin’?” he grimaced. “Why don’t you wash your hands of him?”

He felt the heat in his gut and reckoned he could guess.

Atlas looked at his wallet, much thinner thanks to the cab and the drink. His budget was already shot to hell. Fuck it.

The workman headed to the nearest street and cast his eye about. He picked the first woman he saw that he had any hope of being able to afford. He paid up-front and let her lead him down an alley where she got on her knees and earned her pay. He didn’t close his eyes – he forced himself to watch.

Red hair. Maybe thirty years old. She smelled like cheap scent and liquor.

The experience was visceral enough to drive the thought of the young runaway out of his head.

“As it should be,” Atlas muttered and the woman looked up, frowning.

“You say something?”

She studied him, and narrowed her eyes.

“Finishing in the mouth costs extra.”

Atlas looked up at the darkness above him. In the void, there was no moon. There were no stars. There was only the lonely blackness.

“Go on, then. I’ll pay.”

He felt numb, even as he came. It hadn’t helped a thing. He could’ve saved his money.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a short chapter of creeper!Sander taking 'artful' photos of Jack in a swimsuit. Because images of 'Rapture's sweetheart' make popular greeting cards and posters when paired with a witty caption. Or something.
> 
> For anyone who cares, I wrote this listening to 'Pretty When You Cry' and 'Old Money' by LDR (of course.) And for anyone keeping track of what Jack likes to snort, he's got his cocaine for parties, and his heroin for whenever he's 'modelling' for Sander. And yes, I use the word modelling very, very loosely.
> 
> Wow this fic is self-indulgent. :I
> 
> Also, for what it's worth, I should probably state that I'm not into this plot because of the jail-bait/underage aspect. I'm not into underage (Hence why everything is implied rather than explicit while Jack's a minor.) My tastes are decidedly fixated on old guys. Tbh the idea of being rescued from shitty abusive shit by a hot older Irishman appeals to me more than it should. So some really fucked up part of myself really identifies with Jack in this - and kind of wishes I was handsome enough and irresistible enough that I could score a rescuer!daddy like that. (Alas, I've only ever been abused - not rescued from said abuse. I had to do my own rescuing.) It's an unrealistic, problematic af fantasy, but it got me through the bad times, so here I am, indulging it. :/

* * *

The backdrop was painted to look like a beach, and that, more than anything else, was what struck Jack as strange. How many people remembered beaches – how many more had never seen a shore in their lives?

He was glad for his remedy, which numbed him to the unease he always felt when he was alone with Sander Cohen. It was different from his usual powder, but the stuff was just as easy to sniff. He didn’t use it much, except when seeing Cohen. The man liked him lethargic, most of the time.

“Don’t lie so limply! Drape yourself over the lounge chair – _gracefully –_ with your–”

The bathing suit itched – old-fashioned – red with white stripes. His sunglasses were red too – heart-shaped – and not necessary in the studio lighting. Still, it was nice to have something to hide behind. _Guess I took too much,_ Jack mused, trying to make himself pose artfully. His limbs were heavy. He felt sick.

“Silas, get our star another sidecar. Interact with the beach ball a bit, would you?”

 _I don’t like sidecars,_ Jack protested inwardly as the drink was shoved into his hand. The words died on his dry tongue, and he wet his throat with the cocktail.

Click. Click. What was it all for? Publicity shots? Something… Rapture. Jack’s hand shook and the glass slipped from his fingers.

“That’s enough for one day, I think,” Sander said. He was far away; Jack blinked, eyelids struggling to lift.

“Yes, yes, Silas. You may go. Shut the door behind you.”

The hand on the back of his neck startled Jack out of his daze somewhat. When had Cohen gotten so close? The second sidecar – or was it the third – had been a bad idea. Jack sagged against the furniture, unable to move.

A hand in his hair, playing with his pin-curls.

“My idea,” Cohen mused. “They suit you, these. Bonny, bonny baby – you’re Rapture’s sweetheart. Do you know that?”

The hand slipped down to his shoulder, plucking at the fabric of his suit.

“Ah ah! You spilled your drink! Now, that won’t do. Let’s... clean you up, shall we?”

Jack stared through pink-tinted glasses, eyes fixed on the painted sky. Atlas had seen the real sky – and the though of the Irishman was like when his remedy kicked in. A warm, euphoric rush spreading through him, lifting him up. Carrying him away from Cohen's heavy breathing and wandering hands.

Jack couldn’t get up, even when Cohen had tired. He really had had too much. Two of the artist’s boys came and grudgingly helped him out to the ride his father arranged for him. Jack dozed off _en route,_ and woke in bed, washed, dried, and smelling of something floral and sweet.

His bed was warm and familiar. It was his favourite place. Nothing ever happened in his bed – it was untarnished and pure. When he pulled the blankets over his head, Jack felt cocooned. A maggot at rest in a warm, dark space. Small and invisible.

He liked the thought of that – being so small that no one could see him. Every year he seemed to get a little taller, a little more conspicuous, and he found himself wishing, more and more, that he could turn into an insect and crawl into a secret hollow, away from everyone.

 _But not from Atlas,_ the boy reminded himself. _You’d miss him._

He did miss him, already. He wondered if Atlas was sleeping too, safe in his coverlets. He wondered if the man slept alone.

He imagined them – two worms together, curling close beside one another in the masking dark. It was a comforting thought. It brought a smile to the young man’s face. He smiled wide, hiding beneath his quilt, because he could, and because here, his smile was just for himself. He smiled so wide it hurt, and the pain, too, was a secret pain, and so, Jack did not mind it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack, you smooth operator, you...

* * *

It was three a.m.

Three a.m. and the phone was ringing.

Atlas startled awake, pain searing through his neck as he twisted awkwardly back from his desk, over which he had been slumped. A half-typed article for an underground paper sat before him, ruined, for in his unconscious state he had leaned heavily on the keys, printing gibberish.

“Who in hell is callin’…” he slurred, disoriented with exhaustion. A bit of stale coffee sat by his elbow – long gone cold – and he tossed it back as he reached for the receiver.

“Atlas,” he barked, voice rough and rasping.

“It’s Jack.”

The voice made him pause – not only because he’d briefly forgotten he’d given the young man his telephone number, but also because the boy sounded… off.

“Are you drunk?” Atlas asked bluntly. Jack replied with a non-committal hum.

“I wan…na s-see you,” he mumbled.

“It’s three in the morning,” Atlas protested. Jack inhaled sharply.

“Oh nuh – nno! Did I wake… wake you up?”

The Irishman sighed and sat back in his chair, yawning. He tilted his head and cracked his neck.

“Y’did. Probably for the best, too. Fell asleep at my desk.”

“Writing a letter?” Jack asked brightly, seeming to sober some, now that something had his attention.

“Nothing that’d interest you.”

Jack laughed, and the breathy warmth of his tone transmitted loud and clear, tinny as it was, coming over the wires.

“You always interest me.”

Atlas snorted.

“That’s a tragedy, if it’s true.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? True, I mean?”

Atlas yawned again and rubbed the tense muscle of his right thigh.

“We both know you’re a trickster. Bit of an imp – bit old for it, too.”

Atlas could hear the boy pouting when he next spoke.

“That’s not true. I’d never lie to _you,_ Atlas.”

“Oh, and why’s that? Is a nobody like me not worth the trouble?”

Jack exhaled into the phone again. The sound was disconcertingly… intimate.

“Mmm… no. I like you.”

He sighed heavily.

“I really do wish I could see you.”

Atlas passed a hand over his chin, feeling the rasp of two days’ stubble roll against his calloused palm.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

Jack persisted.

“Let me see you again – _please._ We could look at the lights – I had such fun the last time! I like you, Atlas. I like your world.”

 _Yeah, for as long as the novelty lasts,_ the workman thought bitterly.

“That’s not possible. I’m not likely to be down at the pub for a while.”

A pause, and then, a proposition.

“Couldn’t I… couldn’t I come to your house?”

Atlas wheezed in disbelief.

“You are joking! I hardly know you!”

“Please, Atlas! It’s so horrible here – I just want to get away and see you – I’ll do anything. I’m begging you. Let me come over.”

“No,” he said flatly. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“I can’t stay here,” the boy said in response, and his voice sounded tight now. Strained. He was… crying, Atlas realized.

_Shit._

“H-hey, easy, it’s hardly the end of the world, now, is it?”

“How do you know?” the young man countered. “When I look forward to seeing you – to getting away from –”

“From?”

“D-don’t. Don’t take this away from me, please,” he sobbed. “You’re my best friend.”

Atlas would’ve laughed, if the kid hadn’t sounded so heartbroken. Something in the words made him pause, however, and he shook his head slowly, unable to comprehend the boy’s attachment.

“I’ve known you for all of five minutes,” he began, but Jack interrupted him.

“I don’t have anybody else,” he admitted softly. “You’re the best man I know…”

He sniffled.

“Do you… do you hate me, Atlas?”

“Hate you? Why should I hate you?” Atlas blurted out, startled by the question. The young man let out a humourless laugh.

“You would if you knew me,” he whispered. “I do.”

Atlas’s throat constricted somewhat. He was always a sucker for a sob story and this kid was playing him like a violin.

“Do you feel safe, where you are?” he asked, and wanted to kick himself for what he was about to do.

“Not… not always,” Jack admitted. “Not… mostly.”

Atlas hummed. _Last chance to back out._

“Have you got any money?”

“Money?” Jack asked, confused. “Why?”

“If you’re coming over, you’ll need to be fed. If you bring the money for groceries, I can make the meal.”

“You mean I can –?”

“… come over. Yeah.”

Jack’s tone brightened considerably.

“I will – I’ll come with money,” he gushed. “Can I come tomorrow night?”

Atlas looked at his unfinished article.

“Can you wait a bit? Come the day after next?”

Jack readily agreed, strength seemingly renewed with the promise of seeing the Irishman again. He thanked Atlas profusely before finally hanging up and leaving the older man exhausted and irritable, too awake now to go back to bed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this chapter has not been proofread much because i'm late for an appointment and am posting it before i leave  
> but i hope you enjoy nonetheless :)

* * *

As the evening approached, Atlas fought his instincts, all of which told him to bolt. The kid was using him and he knew it, yet he was letting it happen anyway. When the boy called again to get his address, he nearly didn’t give it to him, but when a that youthful voice took on a desperate tone, all his resolve went out the window.

The workman paced around his flat, hiding anything he didn’t want the kid to see. Away went the photo of his wife and son, away went the array of dirty pictures he’d amassed in her absence, away went the illegal Communist literature. He found himself tidying obsessively as the hour approached and swore at himself. _This is mad,_ he thought. _Absolutely mad._

When the boy showed up, he looked a mess, bundled up in a big black coat, skin frighteningly pale. He actually looked like he was… emitting light somehow, which unnerved the Irishman considerably.

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat, wiping damp palms on his trouser-legs. “Do you have the money I asked for?”

The boy nodded and produced more cash than Atlas had ever seen in any one place at once. He realized just how bad the kid could’ve got hurt if someone had seen him carrying that kind of cash in Pauper’s Drop and cursed his own lack of foresight.

“Right,” he repeated. “You stay here, and I’ll go out. Feel free to listen to the radio.”

Jack nodded and smiled, looking like he planned to be good as gold.

Atlas wasted no time in hurrying to the corner shop and picking up a few things. Powdered potatoes, tinned cabbage… a few bits and bobs that were hard to get. Surface foods were in short supply, but if you couldn’t splurge for a house-guest, when could you splurge?

When the older man returned, he found Jack sitting on his sofa, thumbing through a book of Irish Folktales and chewing on his lower lip, lost in thought. He looked up when Atlas entered and grinned.

“Can I help?” he asked brightly as the laborer rolled up his sleeves and began puttering around his tiny kitchenette.

“Do you cook?” Atlas asked, surprised. The boy shook his head sheepishly.

“No… but I could set the table!”

He was so eager to please that Atlas found himself not only agreeing, but smiling in response.

“Go on, then.”

Making colcannon with nothing but canned and powdered ingredients was an exercise in futility. Atlas didn’t expect much – he rarely did, in life – but he did not expect it to taste quite so…

“… tinned,” he said around the first mouthful, pulling a face. “Ugh… not even close to the real thing. I’d’ve been better off cookin’ you fish if I weren’t so feckin’ sick of it.”

Jack assured him he liked the food and even had a second helping. Given how scrawny he was, the kid probably needed it.

“I liked your book,” the boy said brightly. “All those stories… Ireland sounds… better than anything I can imagine, really.”

“They’re just superstition,” Atlas countered. “All a bit irrelevant to the modern world. All that mumbo jumbo doesn’t help a man earn a salary or put food on his plate.”

“No,” Jack mused, “… but you like them anyway. Otherwise, why keep the book?”

The kid was quicker on his feet than Atlas gave him credit for. He furrowed his brow and moved to clear away the dishes, and Jack moved to the sofa to get out of the Irishman’s way.

“Do you like to read?” Atlas asked as he put away the leftovers. Jack shrugged.

“I don’t get much of a chance to… Dad doesn’t like me filling my head with nonsense,” he admitted. “But I look at picture books – lots of them.”

Atlas couldn’t help himself.

“And you’re how old, again?”

Jack bristled for a moment, then sighed, slumping in defeat.

“I’m older than he wants me to be,” he admitted. “Too willful. I’ve been getting that a lot lately. That I’m willful. Rebellious, y’know.”

Atlas placed the dishes in the sink and turned on the water.

“And? Are you?”

Jack shrugged again, pulling his knees up to his chest.

“I dunno. I don’t _think_ I am, really, but then again, I’m visiting you right now. Dad would throw a fit if he knew. But I put up with all the rest of it… more than I should, I suppose…”

He trailed off with a sigh. Atlas scowled as he scrubbed the plates clean.

“What sort of things are those – the ones you put up with?”

Jack shook his head faintly, watching owlishly as the workman put the dishes on a small, thrifted drying rack by the sink.

“Nothing… do you mind if I smoke?”

Atlas said he didn’t, but he regretted his words as he watched the young man light up and gently purse his lips around his cigarette.

“Can I have one?” he asked before he could think of a reason not to. He was curious, if he was being quite honest. He didn’t know what rich men’s cigarettes were like.

“I’m running low,” Jack said. “We can share this one.”

He took a long drag before patting the space beside him on the couch. Atlas sat, reason leaving him entirely when the boy passed him the smoke.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, mangling the ‘th’ beyond recognition as his heart-rate rose. _This is a bad idea, Atlas. A very, very, very bad idea._

“How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

Atlas nearly inhaled the cigarette. As it was, he wheezed, coughed, and sputtered for a good two minutes before he’d gathered his wits enough to reply.

“Why do you care?”

Jack stared at his hands and started wringing them anxiously.

“Just… just curious, I guess. As to how I stack up.”

Atlas did not want to be having this conversation. If it weren’t for the way the boy sounded so sad, he would never have answered.

“Seventeen,” he admitted at last.

“My age,” Jack echoed. The Irishman nodded.

“Just so.”

Jack was visibly upset by the information, but he refused to say why. However, when he spoke next, Atlas reckoned he could guess.

“Is it… is it bad if someone loses it before that?”

“How much before?” Atlas asked with trepidation. Jack gave yet another limp little shrug.

“Would you hate someone like that?” he ventured haltingly. “If they’d… done things. Earlier than seventeen.”

 _Have you,_ Atlas wanted to ask. Then, with a stab of anger, _or were things done to you?_ He was beginning to suspect the latter.

“I wouldn’t, no,” he said finally, and the corner of Jack’s mouth twitched with a flicker of a smile. Atlas was sure that behind those huge, black lenses, the boy’s eyes were fixed on him. He swallowed.

_Say something intelligent._

“You… you’re kind of… glowin’, a bit,” he blabbered. The boy’s smile widened and he nodded.

“Mm. It’s my special tonic. I’m supposed to wear it whenever I’m entertaining… I thought I’d wear it for you. Do you like it?”

He bit his lower lip coyly. Atlas frowned.

“I find it a bit unnervin’, actually.”

The kid’s face fell.

“Oh…”

He looked away, wringing his hands a bit more roughly.

“D’you… d’you want to see some pictures? Of Ireland?” Atlas asked, desperate to diffuse the awkwardness of the situation. The young man turned to look at him once more.

“You have some?”

“I have a book of ‘em.”

“Oh, yes please!”

Atlas searched his bookshelf and produced a large volume of photographs and illustrations he’d brought with him to the sea. He took a seat beside the boy, very much aware of the way the youngster pressed up against his side to study the images.

“It’s divided up by county,” he explained. “Here, let me show you.”

He flipped through the pages to a large colour print that took up a whole page.

“Dear old Dublin city,” he said, and the fondness was audible in his voice. “I was born in a working-class part of town… none of the luxury you’d be used to. I’m sure you’d find it all quite drab and dreary. I did, a bit, but Christ, I miss the sunlight. The sky. The people. I even miss the Church, God help me! Never thought I’d see the day…”

He sighed heavily. Jack laid his head on the older man’s chest and hugged him ‘round the waist.

“I’m sorry I’ll never see it,” he said softly. “And I’m sorry you miss it so much.”

“Ah, well… I expect it’s normal to get nostalgic at my age,” the Irishman murmured, absentmindedly moving to card his fingers through the young fellow’s hair, knocking his hat to the floor in the process.

“You’re not that old,” Jack insisted. Atlas snorted.

“I’m older than I look. I have a baby face, me. Sure, I bet you’d never guess I’m turning forty this year.”

Jack shrugged.

“You could be a hundred and I’d still think you were wonderful.”

That shook Atlas back to the present, and to the fact that the boy was suddenly all but in his lap, and he was _petting the lad’s head._

“Uh. Right.”

He coughed and gestured for Jack to retreat. The boy obeyed and pulled away, moving languid and graceful as a dancer. He took the smouldering cigarette from Atlas’s trembling fingers and took a long drag.

“I hate being rich,” he breathed amid the smoke.

“Really –”

“I wish I could stay here forever,” he admitted. “You’re so much better than other people… everyone misses land, but you actually say it. You’re honest… and you’re kind.”

“That’s a bit much –”

“I feel happy with you.”

Atlas stared at his hands – big, calloused. He rubbed them together anxiously.

“Are you not happy with anyone else?”

“No.”

He glanced at the boy who now reclined, head back, staring at the ceiling, blowing smoke rings.

“Not even with yourself?”

The kid laughed.

“Especially not with myself. You don’t know me – you think I’m good.”

Atlas watched that pale, swan-like throat working as the young man spoke.

“Are you not… good?”

Jack stubbed out the cigarette and yawned into his palm.

“I’m worse than dirt.”

“Stay here tonight,” Atlas blurted out. “If you don’t want to go home. You can have the bed; I can sleep on the –”

“I wish I could,” Jack sighed. “Dad’d kill me. It’s late as it is.”

He got up and began gathering his belongings. When he spoke next, his voice shook, and Atlas noticed that there was a shine to his cheeks that wasn’t there before.

“Please say you’ll let me come back. I love it here so much.”

He sniffed and searched his pockets for a handkerchief. Atlas reacted on instinct, reaching for his own and using it to dab at the boy’s face. Partway through cleaning the tears away, he realized what he was doing and froze. Jack arched into the touch, parting his lips.

“You can kiss me, if you want.”

Atlas dropped the handkerchief and recoiled.

“N-no, I don’t want that at all! You’re a kid, Jack! And I’m not a –”

The boy slipped his coat on in one movement, and slipped out the door in the next, pausing only to glance over his shoulder.

“Goodnight, Atlas,” he whispered, and vanished into the night. Atlas swore and collapsed onto his couch, burying his head in his hands. This was getting bad – worse than bad. This kid was one hell of an operator – he was insidious, bleeding into everything the Irishman wanted to keep private.

“Never again,” he told himself, but even as he said it, he knew he’d give in the next time the young lad asked.

“He’s got you right where he wants you,” he hissed bitterly. “A plaything. A distraction. God, Atlas, you’re a fool!”

He left the book on the table and Jack’s cigarette in his ashtray and stumbled into bed too beside himself to even unfasten his sock garters. He lay there, tossing and turning in his undershirt and shorts, and did not fall asleep until the morning.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really dark PTSD flashbacks in this chapter relating to the sexual harassment, grooming, and abuse of a minor (Jack) by various people in positions of power, as well as really dubious parenting from Andrew, who has decided on a new way to put his son to use (which starts in 'arranged' and ends in 'marriage.)
> 
> So yeah. Expect all the angst. You have been warned.

* * *

Jack was twitchy with fear and anticipation as he stood outside his father’s office. Uncertainty gave way to dread – surely someone had found out the truth about where he’d been sneaking off to – who he’d been going to see. Jack would be punished; Atlas would be… who could say? By the time he was let in, the boy was trembling fiercely and blinking back tears.

He was not surprised to see his father had a guest with him. He was, however, surprised to see not one, but two people – one of whom was a young woman, about his age. She was uncommonly pretty, with auburn hair in merry ringlets swept off her brow, and large, expressive blue eyes that fixed on Jack curiously. Jack was confused by the presence of a lady and faltered in the doorway, acutely aware of his bare legs – he’d worn the sailor suit, knowing his father approved of it.

“Ah. Jack, come in – I want you to meet Mr. Nash. This is his daughter Imogene.”

“Hello,” Jack stumbled, tongue flabby and useless.

“Mr. Nash is to be an investor of mine – a real, upstanding fellow in his own right. Made a lot of money for himself, didn’t you, Willard?”

“Sure did, Andrew – in coffins aboveground, in burial alternatives down here. Undertaking, funeral arrangements, you name it, I do it.”

Jack nodded dumbly, momentarily horrified that he was being told this in preparation for his own execution. It was an absurd thought, but it still made him shudder.

“Now, being as I’m a busy man,” Nash continued, “I haven’t had any time choosing a suitor for my Imogene. That’s where you come in.”

“Indeed – an alliance between you both would be worth far more than anything else I could hope for – you’re getting on in years, Jack,” the elder Ryan said benignly. Jack knew the true meaning behind the statement. The wear and tear was starting to show – he wasn’t as marketable as he once was.

“So, you and Miss Imogene are to be married,” Andrew finished. “Four months from now.”

Jack stared at the girl, who stared back, unresponsive. The conversation continued but Jack was lost in thought. Mr. Nash led his daughter away, and Jack, at last, could think to speak.

“Why… why marry me off? Am I… still to entertain guests for you?”

Jack’s father shrugged.

“On occasion, maybe. The general consensus seems to be that you’re getting a bit… tiresome.”

“Tiresome?”

“You’re too old,” the older man clarified. “Starting to look too much like a full-grown man.”

Jack’s stomach twisted, equal parts thrilled at the prospect of relative freedom and disgusted by his parent’s words.

“Who is she?” the youth asked, changing the subject. “Imogene. What does she like? Will she like me?”

His father gave him a withering look.

“It makes no difference _what_ she likes, Jack. The girl was dropped as a baby, I think, or perhaps it was a fever… Something to do with an irresponsible nanny… secretly communist, most likely. Well. It’s not important. All that counts is that she’s a pretty creature, to be sure, but she’s stupid. Slow-witted, you know. You’re helping me help Nash get the girl off his hands.”

Jack shook his head.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he argued “You – you’d never take a deal that one-sided!”

“Who said anything about one-sided? The man owns 40% of Fontaine’s latest start-up endeavour – that fool’s been giving shares away left and right – now, I currently own 15%. Nash is selling me his portion in return – I’ll be the owner of the majority of Fontaine’s holdings – I’ll be able to topple him!”

Andrew kept talking, but Jack stopped listening somewhere along the way. He felt as though he might vomit. At some point, he realized he was crying.

“Don’t weep, boy – you’re not an infant.”

Jack nodded.

“Sorry. Can I leave now? It’s time for my exercises – you hate me to miss calisthenics.”

“Yes, yes. Go away.”

Jack left. His exercise equipment – his mat, his hoop and ball, his little balance beam – waited in the playroom. He stared at the cheerful wallpaper that he’d admired as a boy, before he’d known what it meant to be part of a deal.

He traced the worn bar of the balance beam with his thumb, thinking of Atlas. He wondered if Atlas would hate him, if he were to marry. Surely the man would hate him for his past – and what was this, really, but another firm hand on his shoulder, another voice in his ear prompting Jack to amuse someone on his father’s behalf?

 _I wish I was someone else,_ Jack thought. _No one important. A factory worker, like Atlas. We could work together, and he could teach me things, and I could go to his house to read, and maybe then he’d want to kiss me._

Jack was surprised at how badly he wanted that. Not just the kiss, but all of it – a new life.

 _I wish Atlas were my first kiss_ , he realized, and swallowed a sob that threatened to escape from him. Cohen was his first kiss – would’ve been his first everything else, too, if it hadn’t been for his father’s old accountant – the one who smelled of smoked fish. Tim? Tom? He was long dead now – heart attack. Cohen probably thought he’d had some great honour, inducting Jack into the world of pederasty. He’d been so enthusiastic – Jack hadn’t got the heart to refuse, or to tell him the truth. Fifteen, he’d been then, though the looks had started long before Cohen worked up his nerve. A birthday present, Cohen had called it, and he’d been glowing with something like pride, and Jack always liked being told he was doing right – liked the confirmation that he was a worthwhile person – so he had lied, had played along, hadn’t mentioned the incident five years prior, or the following one-sided affair with the wheezy assistant always lurking near his father’s office, salt water taffy in his pockets. Jack loved sweets then – would do anything in the world for the banned goodies his father forbade him to have. _They’ll ruin your teeth, Jack,_ he’d say, but the old accountant would wink and produce one – pink, purple, green shiny papers wrapped ‘round them like baubles, like decoration, like fish scales shimmering in the deep. Each piece was the size of Jack’s palm, sticky-sweet and rich. It was a ploy, always, and Jack, stupid and starved for attention, fell for it every time. _You have it on your fingers, there, son. Best lick that away before you stick to something – easy, easy, let me help you – you clean your right hand, I’ll clean your left…_

Jack jolted back to the present, aware of something dripping along his leg. He looked down, surprised to see himself standing in a puddle of his own urine, hand’s white-knuckled, nails splintering as they dug hard into the balance beam.

He staggered back and shook his head, confused. How long had he been standing there, in that state? He couldn’t remember – couldn’t straighten out his thoughts. He searched the playroom, found the little toy train on the shelf where he’d left it last time he’d felt sick like this.

His back-up stash of powder, hidden in the caboose, took the edge off, made him disassociate enough to function. He staggered across the room, the air thick as syrup, and removed his soiled clothes. His own nakedness made him uneasy and he crawled into the toy chest as he had done as a boy. It was a much tighter fit now, but he still made it. He covered his mouth with his hands, smothering choking sobs. He gagged and shuddered, drooling excessively as he sucked his fingers into his mouth, rocking and quaking. He slid his free hand to his throat and squeezed until his vision began to spark and fade. He screamed as he bit down hard on his knuckles – hard enough to draw blood.

He wanted it to be Atlas – Atlas pressing him into the settee, stuffing fingers down his virgin throat, worming a hand under his clothes, under his skin. He wanted to be erased and remade in the workman’s image. He wanted to be something Atlas would want to keep forever.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! This time with drama! angst! reveals! and also a bit of underage kissing but no more than that. And it's Jack instigating as a coping strategy. So yeah. 
> 
> I must say I missed writing this fic. I miss writing self-indulgent things for the hell of it.

* * *

Atlas had an old bit of pipe in his hand the moment he heard feet on the stairs. He tested the weight of it, this makeshift cudgel, before moving slowly, stealthily, to the front door of his apartment.

“Who’s there?” he barked. In this neighborhood, it was never safe to assume. Anyone visiting him at this hour was sure to have robbery in mind – especially since he could no longer pay the local thugs for protection, the strike dragging on as it was.

“It’s me – Jack – please Atlas, let me in.”

Atlas cursed and rolled his eyes, but opened the latch and stood aside as he swung the door open.

“It’s four in the morning – you need to stop doing this, boyo,” he said as he did so, but his words were cut off when his arms were full of a weeping young man.

“Right – right, easy. Come in, will you? Take your coat off.”

 Atlas bolted the door again as Jack divested himself of some of his layers. His clothes were a mess, thrown on in haste, mismatched. He was shivering.

“How’d you get here?” Atlas asked. Jack sniffed.

“Ran.”

On foot. _Jesus._

“Never do that aga–”

“Atlas, you’re my friend, aren’t you?”

The boy had pinned him with an invisible stare, eyes streaming tears behind his dark glasses. The Irishman nodded.

“Then please,” Jack tilted his head, baring his swan-like throat. “Kill me. Or fuck me. Fuck me then kill me. Just… don’t send me home.”

Atlas shook his head, still foggy with sleep. He blinked, half-expecting the young man to vanish like a bad dream, but he was still there, splayed on the sofa, waiting for an answer.

“You’re seventeen,” Atlas blurted, and immediately recognized that that was the wrong thing to say.

“That’s never stopped anyone else.”

The words sucked the air out of the room. Suddenly everything was vividly, painfully clear.

“Oh…” Atlas began but Jack shook his head violently.

“Don’t! Don’t… if you won’t fuck me, then strangle me. Please.”

“I’m not gonna kill you.”

“You don’t have to kill me,” Jack conceded. “Just help me forget.”

It was that mandate that led to both men sharing a bottle of whiskey as Jack leaned on the Irishman’s shoulder. The drink made him pliant and clingy, and he wormed his way in closer to Atlas every chance he got.

“I think I love you,” the boy murmured into the worn fabric of Atlas’s bathrobe. Atlas shook his head.

“That’s th’ drink talkin’.”

“No,” Jack insisted, “it isn’t. You’re the first man who’s had the chance to have me and never taken it.”

“Has it ever occurred t’you that maybe I don’t fancy you?”

Jack’s mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile.

“I know how you watch me. I feel your eyes settling here,” he touched his mouth, “and here,” he slid his hand down slowly to cup himself through his trousers. Atlas’s face gave him away, mottled with blush, eyes darting madly ‘round the room.

“It’s alright,” Jack insisted.

“No it is not,” Atlas retorted, with the dogged stubbornness of an insistent drunk. “Look – you’re… there’s a great bit of difference between noticin’ someone’s looks and actually wantin’ –”

“So you _have_ noticed?” Jack pressed. “Like I said, it’s alright. You should get it while it’s still available.”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“Dad’s marrying me off,” Jack sighed softly. “Marrying me off to a girl who’s soft in the head. Says I’m too old to be… useful for… other things.”

“Oh… God,” Atlas recoiled. “Y’don’t mean – your Da –”

“No! No, he never. Well… sometimes I think he must’ve wanted to. But he never did, and he had ample chance to. So no. Not him. Not him and not you.”

“And… everyone else…?”

“D’you know – Dad called it ‘playing the hostess.’ Made it sound like game, at first. Made it out to be _fun._ It was, too, sometimes. Sometimes I got presents.”

He shrugged.

“If you want anything, you might as well have it now,” he said matter-of-factly. “Because I’ll either be married or I’ll kill myself, but either way, I probably won’t get to see you anymore.”

He didn’t sound sad, and that’s what did it. That he could say something like that and sound… resigned. Atlas shook his head.

“I shouldn’t…” he mumbled. “Can’t.”

Jack started crying then – then, when he was being turned down by a nobody labourer nearing middle age. Atlas reached for him, grabbed his hand.

“Stay with me, won’t you? Don’t go home – don’t go back there.”

Jack sobbed.

“Dad’ll tear his city apart trying to find me.”

It was a slip of the tongue – so quick Atlas almost missed it, but the word stuck, loud as a gunshot in his ears, and he froze, staring at the boy in growing horror.

“What did you just say?”

Jack went slack before him, pale with fear.

“I didn’t –”

“His city? _His?”_

“I’m sorry –”

“And when were you gonna tell me you’re Jack bloody Ryan?”

The boy was cowering now, curled up like a beaten dog.

“Don’t yell at me,” he whispered. “P-please.”

Atlas slapped the sunglasses off the lad’s face, and there he was. Pale. Frightened. Tear-stained. Pin-curls, big eyes, Rapture’s sweetheart. Posing on biscuit tins and posters since before he could walk.

“You spyin’ for him?” Atlas barked. “You spyin’ on me, for your old man?”

“W-what? No! Daddy doesn’t know about us – he’d take you away! I don’t want to lose you – Atlas you’re my best friend!”

Atlas shook his head, confused, angry, just drunk enough to make thinking difficult. He stared at his hand, raised over the boy. Had he planned to hit him? He couldn’t remember lifting his arm. Everything was fuzzy from the booze.

“Please,” Jack murmured, and wrapped around him like an eel. “Please, Atlas.”

He kissed the Irishman so softly, so gently that Atlas stood, baffled, for all of a minute, before he processed the fact that the boy was licking impatiently at his lips, trying to gain entrance. He pushed him off – too roughly – the kid cracked his head on the wall and crumpled, crying out in pain.

“Shit! Feckin’ – don’t – don’t move. I’ll get some –”

Ice. The boy needed ice. Atlas found some in the icebox and dug it out. He brought it back and wrapped it in a rag, pressing it to the boy’s bruised scalp.

“M’sorry,” he insisted. “I’m so sorry – I never meant to –”

“It’s fine,” Jack replied, too quickly.

“No! No it isn’t you – me Da – look, when I was bad, or he was in a mood, he’d give me his belt – hurt like the devil and I – I never – I promised I’d never – my own son, I never hurt a hair on his head – believe me, Jackie-boy, I’m –”

Jack kissed him again, but it was different this time. A soothing kiss. Safe. Atlas sobbed into it. Let Jack’s tongue into his mouth.

“Not right,” he muttered when the boy retreated. “Not fair. I shouldn’t be the one needin’ comfort –”

“It’s –”

“It’s not fine – don’t say it’s fine. Look, I… I’m exhausted, and I’m really, really drunk. I can’t be kissin’ you. I just can’t.”

Jack nodded.

“So, you want me to leave…?”

“No – no, I want… come t’bed. Not like… that. Just t’ sleep. Just t’ be safe. Please. I’ll… I’ll keep yer Da away from here – c’mon…”

Atlas’s hands were clumsy and warm, big around Jack’s own. The older man’s face was an open book, heartbreak and anguish in his storming eyes. Jack stared at his lower lip, wet and swollen from kissing.

“Sure,” he answered. “Sure. Take me to bed.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written listening to Melanie Martinez - mostly Soap, Alphabet Boy and Sippy Cup, for anyone who cares.
> 
> Also, I forget if I've said, but if I spell labourer with a 'u' it's 'cause I'm Canadian. So if you see that, it's not a typo. Just a Canuck-ism.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been leaving comments. You're all sweeties. :)

* * *

Atlas woke late, head pounding, a bad taste in his mouth. He groaned and cursed, hungover and groggy, and swung his legs out of bed, stuffing his feet into worn old slippers. It was as he was rubbing the sleep from his eyes that he heard someone in his apartment – singing – and the night came back in bits.

He prepared himself mentally for the fallout from letting the boy stay and – _feck –_ kissing him, but when Atlas walked out of his bedroom, his mouth went dry.

Jack had dispensed with his sunglasses – no need to hide anymore – and his clothes, and stood in the kitchenette, bundled up in one of Atlas’s shirts. He was barely decent – all pink, perfect skin and hemlines riding up. When he glanced over, his eyes were big and bright and he had a grin on his face that made the labourer’s heart stop.

“Morning,” he chirped, turning back to the stove. He had a smudge of flour on his cheek, and as he moved, the too-big shirt slipped down off his shoulder.

“I wanted to thank you for last night,” he said brightly, “so I tried to make pancakes. I’ve never done it, though. They’re not any good.”

He bit his lip and hung his head.

“I tried my best. Sorry.”

Atlas forced his mouth to work again.

“Buh… it’s… nngh. No problem. Here, let me. Help.”

He tried to ignore the way his skin tingled, so close to the half-dressed young man.

“The mixture’s actually not bad. You just need a bit more water – make it less of a paste.”

Atlas corrected the batter and poured it into the pan. He talked meaninglessly, giving a detailed, redundant play-by-play of the pancake. If it bothered Jack, he didn’t say so, hanging on the Irishman’s every word.

“You’re so smart,” he said at last, and there was genuine admiration in his voice.

“Makin’ a pancake’s hardly proof of that.”

Jack gave a little laugh.

“Well, I can’t do it. Daddy never let me learn.”

He sounded so sad, voice small and hurt, that Atlas paused and turned to look at him seriously.

“What did he let you learn? Besides… entertainin'?”

“Exercise… um… singing. I can do my multiplications and I know how to dance. Oh, and Sander taught me acting.”

He perked up suddenly.

“Did you ever see my films?”

Atlas shook his head.

“Oh, you should see… see ‘Narcissus’ if you see any of them. That one’s popular – especially the bath scene.”

“B-bath scene?”

“Mm hmm – oh no! You’ve burnt your pancake! It’s alright. We can make another.”

Atlas startled, turning back to the now smouldering pancake, cursing as he scraped he charred dough out of the pan.

“By the way, Atlas…?”

“Hmm?”

“Who’s Karl Marx?”

Atlas paused, ladle full of batter hovering over the pan.

“He… uh. He’s one of those bad men your Da doesn’t like.”

“I know that much… Daddy says all Communists are enemies of the state, but… do you think he’s that bad? Marx?”

“Er… well, I think a lot of people’d say he is.”

“Then why do you have his book?”

Atlas dropped the ladle in shock, whirling around, mouth open to protest.

“You’ve been snoopin’, have you?”

Jack blushed and looked away.

“Please don’t be mad. I was looking for a measuring cup. I thought it was strange to keep books in the cutlery drawer.”

Atlas turned off the stove and braced his hands on the sink.

“Jack, what you saw was… it doesn’t mean I’m a –”

“You had pictures, too.”

Atlas cursed and covered his face with his hand.

“Oh Christ.”

“Is that… what you like? Women with big –”

“It is, yeah.”

If the older man intended to put an end to he conversation, he failed, for when he opened his eyes, his mouth opened in horrified shock. Jack looked over his shoulder, coyly, from where he stood, bent over the kitchen table.

“Is it just the women, or is it the way they’re posed? Something like this, right?”

_Don’t look at the shirttails – they’re riding up but don’t look – don’t look Atlas, for all that is holy, do not look at him –_

“What are you doin’ this for?” the Irishman hissed. “Get up – stand like a man, why don’t you?”

“What am I doing?” Jack asked innocently.

“Don’t give me that – you know damn well. I won’t be seduced against my will in my own bleedin’ apartment. I’m _not interested,_ right?”

Jack wilted somewhat and slid off the table, collapsing into a chair. He fiddled with his shirt cuff, bouncing his leg in agitation.

“I wish you were,” he mumbled. “You’re _sooo_ handsome, Atlas.”

That, Atlas could laugh at, and he did, turning away at last, breaking the spell.

“I’m really very good, you know. At bedroom things. I could do anything you like. If you wanted to come on my face, I’d let you. Some people like that.”

Atlas cringed.

“I don’t want to have this conversation. You’re not of age, Jack. I’m many things, but I’m no cradle-robbin' pervert.”

“I turn eighteen next month,” Jack insisted. “Would you want me then?”

Atlas slammed his fist down on the counter-top in frustration, making Jack yelp and fall silent.

“Why can’t you let this alone? Why is ‘no’ not good enough for you?”

He heard a sniffling sound and turned back to see that the heir to the Ryan fortune was crying, curled up small on the chair.

“Hey, hey, don’t… look, I’ve got a temper, but I don’t mean to –”

Jack looked up, and his face was _wrecked_ with anguish.

“I just want to like the person I’m with,” he whispered, voice wavering. “J-just the once. Just so I have a good memory to go with all the bad ones.”

“How many bad ones?” Atlas blurted out against his better judgement. Jack shook his head.

“You’d hate me if you knew,” he muttered. “You’d think I’m a… a tart, or something. I swear I’m not – I mean, I didn’t set out to be –”

“How many?”

Jack shrugged and sniffed.

“I lost count around twenty-five? It’s hard to think about it.”

He misinterpreted the look of horror on the labourer’s face, and burst into fresh tears.

“I swear, if I could’ve saved it up for you I would’ve! I’d have loved it to be you, the first time.”

He took Atlas’s big hand in his own, rubbing his thumb over the callouses and knuckles thick with old breaks and dislocations from countless brawls and workplace accidents.

“You’re puttin’ me on a pedestal – I’m not worth it,” Atlas insisted. Jack shook his head.

“You are. I can see your heart – it’s so good. You’re so good. I wish I’d met you earlier.”

He pressed a chaste kiss to the Irishman’s hand.

“If you want me, when I’m legal, then I’m yours, okay?” he promised. “I won’t bring it up again, and I’ll try not to tease you – well, not on purpose. Daddy said I get people riled up sometimes just by standing around, but I’ll try to be good.”

Atlas found himself considering the offer and shook his head to clear it.

“I can’t. Takin’ up with a Ryan? It’s mad.”

“Would you, if I wasn’t a Ryan? If I was just Jack?”

Atlas pulled his hand away and shook his head again.

“Look, you’re a sweet kid, but… I mean we barely know each other, for one thing –”

“Could we try?”

“Jack –”

“Just as friends! Please? I really do like you – you’re so interesting and you know all sorts of things. I’d like to stay your friend, if that’s all I can be.”

“You’re Andrew Ryan’s son.”

“You didn’t care who I was before.”

The boy’s stubbornness was unbeatable. Atlas sighed in defeat.

“Right. I’m gonna regret this, but… for the time being, yeah. You can stay here and we can be… friends. Just friends, mind. No more traipsin’ about half-naked. And you’re sworn to secrecy about Mr. Marx if I throw you out.”

Jack’s smile was like a sunny day in Ireland – rare and deliriously beautiful. It made Atlas ache for home in a way that surprised him, even as the young man spoke.

“Alright, Atlas. It’s a deal.”


End file.
